


Morrigan

by Ariasune



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, History, old fic, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:06:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"he did not have her fiery hair. instead its colour stank; a pale, filmy washed out sunlight; almost-resin blond. were it not for the venomous bright eyes, like shaded trees, & puddled ferns, she could she could see nothing of herself in him"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> See end for History textbook.

 

**nemain.**

* * *

Britannia gazed down frankly into widened, and intense - like difficulty swallowing, and clumped sand - green eyes. The toddler was alert, and perfectly still, staring back at her, and she adjusted the grip she had under his coltish legs - she suspected he would grow to be scrawny and slender, deer-delicate and thin. Were it not for the venomous bright eyes, like shaded trees, and puddled ferns, she could see nothing of herself in him. Not just colour, however, even as she blinked equally deep, and multi-faceted green eyes, but personality. The wary plated jade was an unfurled burst of character, and the deep pupils were dilated and darkened with a contrary strength. Burning; inexorable forests of curiousity and waiting, fury. His bones would forever jut out from under his skin, more so as he grew older and shed his cub fat, but perhaps this would be tempered with height. Britannia brushed away one of her long, wild curls of red hair, as it tickled the child's wrinkling nose, and pushed the hair back behind her ears. This little one, unlike Alba, did not have her fiery hair, and instead scruffy, almost feathery, hair adorned him like a crown of thorns. Its colour stank; a pale, filmy washed out sunlight; almost-resin blond. But the child frowned, appraising her with loud expressions and soft frowns, eyes a wild shout of emotion. This babe would never be a washed out creature.

As if sensing her thoughts, he gave a writhe, voice a mess of frisian and englisc, as he opened a wildcat mouth to a pointy stream of words.

At her elbow, Alba - red hair scraggly and crisp like fire, blue eyes a brightened pinpoint - tugged on her dress; "Can I hold it, mother?" Alba's face was a crooked blur of interest, and the exhausted, sharpened cat of a child hissed and growled as Britannia tipped him into his elder brother's arms. "Ach, it weighs nothing," Alba said amazed, as his little brother writhed in his open, cupped arms like a slick eel. "But fights like two devils."

"He," Britannia corrected. "And you are two devils."

Alba struggled to keep a grip on the flexible struggles of the shrieking, snarling toddler, moving so determinedly it almost made him seem slippery and wet. Alba dropped to the ground, crossing his legs and holding the wriggling child close in them, skin pressed in little points of borders, and contact, Alba's body making room for the thrashing little brother. "Nae," Alba laughed softly, as his brother's tiny fist connected with his mouth. "He's twice the devil of me."

Britannia peered down at her two young children, green eyes latched onto the indignant fury in mirroring green eyes. The greens are different - related, bound almost. Where Britannia's eyes fold into a secret, wooded, almost black-brown dark (loam, and earth, and tunneling mystery), the child's eyes unfold out into an engulfing forest, vivid and snap-snap irises, like ivy, and grass, and undergrowth, clawing out for the sky.

"Albion," Britannia smiles finally, the frankness slipping out of her gaze, and the element of motherhood creeping into her voice. "You are going to be trouble, aren't you?"

Albion - as she has named him - only shudders and claws, tiny fingernails a patter of claws as he scrapes at Alba's gentle, lake district arms, and growls like a tiny wildcat kit. Voice a burr of promise; he agrees with her, in alert, half-formed, and fierce protesting sounds. A frenzy, a fine, furious frenzy, fierce and frank.

Britannia reached out, gathering Albion into her arms, and curled him against her; he gave several flurs of movement, still contrary, and then settled. Pressed against her, into her bracken-like warmth. His serious huff, even as he nuzzled close, told Britannia that Albion was merely agreeing to the contact because she was nice, and warm, but sleepy, total, innocent affection bordered it in the way his delicate fingers tightened in the clasp of her cloak. Pure certainty in the way he rested his weight against hers; she had won, for now, as he yawned (white teeth a flash; warning) and snuggled closer, drifting asleep.

Alba pulled at the hem of her dress again, pouting, "Can I hold Albion, please?" and Britannia hooked her fingers in Alba's messy hair, ruffling it and laughing under her breath, lightly rocking Albion in her arms.

* * *

**macha.**

* * *

Britannia stood her ground between her children and Rome, eyes a crackle of green electricity, and she very firmly told Rome to sod off. Not her most eloquent statement, but her languages are young, bubbling, full of woad and woodland - grown wild and ragged. Besides, it is exactly what she wanted; fury, nothing else but fury. A lioness standing between her cubs, and the Roman Eagle with canines bared, but behind her Alba scoffed, and Albion growled - little curses, and he even said sod off the way Britannia had, half in imitation, and more than half out of instinct, his green eyes brightened with fear, and face twisted into anger. It is with only the most direct of motions from Rome, firmly gripping Britannia by her upper arm and shoving her to the side, that Britannia is forced away from her young, and even then, she fought and struggled as hard as she could. Quietened, but not subdued, she tried to claw his eyes out, and find the soft spaces in his skin to rip at as his men held her steady (their voices marveling at the strength of a nation); as Rome settled down, sitting on his heels to gaze speculatively into their eyes.

Alba reacted as soon as Rome was near him, with a single wild fist and turned, and fled into the recesses of the glens; Albion, who had stood his ground, and tried to push Rome into the floor of the universe with only his gaze, jerked round, open-mouthed as his brother ran across the ground.

"Run!" Britannia voice snapped across Albion's senses, but Rome had already gripped Albion by his cloak, holding the wriggling, thrashing child still, like a caught fish with its lip hooked bloodily through. Green eyes widened, as if in just as much pain, and the wild snarl of curses bubbled out of Albion. But it was too late; they all could feel it, Rome, Britannia and Albion, and so Albion instead braced his tiny body to meet whatever would come as best he could. Rome tightened his grip, plucking Albion up. He lifted Albion into the air with comparative gentleness - education, Latin, and accepting of all of Albion's strange water gods - but Albion's thrashes rendered it painful for the little nation. Soon, Albion was gibbering in helpless pain, as Britannia fought and struggled in the gripping hands of the Roman Soldiers.

"I have a grandson with eyes like yours," Rome pulled his scarlet cloak from his shoulders, and wrapped it about Albion's clawing limbs, effectively bundling the tiny child into an easily-handled bundle.

Albion made a noise like a wounded cat; enraged and furious. Rome thumbed underneath Albion's eyes, watching the thickened colour - the girth of the hues - flare of flushed fury and growth - impossible, inevitable, undeniable growth. He glanced at the child's mother's eyes; Britannia's eyes were a far duller green. Set shades.

"Let him go." Britannia hissed.

"How much of these isles is he?" Rome questioned.

"None of yours." This time Albion had spoken up, and Rome directed interested eyes back to the congealed green of the child's.

"Your eyes are not like Romano," Rome decided. "By iove, you will grow up to be very strong; you can see it in those eyes." Rome looked back at Britannia. "You are lucky to have a child like this, Morgana - I would be pleased to have an heir such as he."

"You have your own cubs." Britannia replied. "Hand him over to me; you've conquered us, now let us be." Lips curled back in a horrible grimace. "I will ensure the correct taxes are sent to your house."

Rome shook his head. "You are too set in your ways, Le Fay," He gripped Albion closer to him. "You are of very little use to me when I can instead shape this tiny lion cub; you know that." Rome gestured carelessly, turning round to instead focus on directing more men into the forests in search of the flame-haired one.

He did however set Albion on his hip, twisting slightly to allow the child to see and watched his reaction with interest - a single choking sound, and the green eyes flared wide, the reflections in the irises a splattered mixture of pain and shock. A broken bird of an expression, like deer shot down in the forest by a rain of arrows, prey animals; disappointed, Rome gave a sigh. It was right to have ended the child's mother, now he would bond with another nation. It was disappointing that the raw potential that had lit up in those vervant eyes - the ferocity, but now it was dulled only with pain.

Unable to squirm out of the thick red cloak, Albion twisted about, as slippery as ever in it, and with a snarl that rattled his bones and lungs - almost a scream - Albion sank his teeth into the nearest section of skin, Rome's cheek, and bit down as hard as he could.

Rome reacted instinctively, ripping the child off of him, and Albion tumbled to the floor, unfurling from the cloak. Green eyes poisonous with hatred, he made to run away, and Rome stamped down on Albion's cloak, and Albion fell on his face. Began to sob unstoppably into the ground, voice rising in hiccoughs of pain, and behind them, Britannia bled out on the floor. For once, not going to pick herself up again - after wolves ravaged her, or a stray battle left her unpieced - conquered and divided. Divide and Conquer. Albion's eyes became bubbled and obscured with tears, and the flushed blood in his eyes turned the burning, shameful crying burning green into the green of infected flesh, as Albion screamed like it was the end of the world. Gently, touching the circle of impressed teeth, sticky saliva and threaded blood, Rome crouched down to place a reassuring hand on the flimsy, rainy-gold head of hair, shushing in father tongues.

* * *

**badb.**

* * *

England leant his head in the heel of his hand, and let his frank (and green, burnt out green) gaze settle on the glass. If he looked past the glass he would let his gaze stain upon the smoking, horrified mess of London as Germany kicked his stomach again and again. The unsettled pain - endless cramps, self-loathing - informed him, whisperingly, that he deserved it. Next to him, his little-now-big America actually glared at him, lip curled back in a half-snarl that is something England gave him once. Everything on America's face is something England gave him once; that baring of teeth, that furious narrowing of eyes, and that same violence in every rigid jar of his body. America hated him, possibly more than he had during the revolution, and England was so sure there were limits to hatred. Even bound by alliances, and a thick political coil, even so, America personally found no satisfaction in being here. Sometimes they would laugh, and then sometimes, they would sit like this.

"They wanted to be free, England," America is talking about the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and how its most interesting act was falling apart. About Yugoslavia, Czechoslovakia, Poland. "You sold them." He's talking about the Moscow Treaty now, just to narrow it down. "You gave them to Germany."

England let the hatred wash over him, scarcely touching him, because he is saturated with hatred. His entire body is tumbling down from the heady, addictive taste of Empires, and crashing to the burning cities, waking up covered in smoke. Russia is red-blazoned, and England isn't yet sure he wants to be on Russia's good side or bad side. France is only in the meetings half the time; of course it's his nether regions that defect to Germany, typical. Even Canada, Australia - he won't be an Empire at the end of this war, regardless of what happens. His body is thin, and his emotions are even thinner - his eyes settle on a unchanging, unresolved green, dark and dull. America, out of all these, blue eyes vivid, is preferable, even when England's little brother - the boy he raised - is unsympathetic about the coiling smoke that flowed up in rivers of blackened blood from England's capital.

London; Londinium.

England fought the urge to press his cheek on the icy glass, and swallowed - like clumped sand had bunched in his throat, like constrained tears, like carry on and live because that's only slightly worse.

America took him by surprise when gloved fingers, strong and softened only by the leather, and by the care by which America handled him, turned England to face him. England stared at him, because what else could be done; he was kicked, and beaten, but France turned up to meetings with more ribs showing under tattered fashion than England had ever shown in his doe-boned, antelope scrawny life. It broke his heart to fight on the same side as France (again; the word tasted hollow).

America watched England's green eyes, and delivered his sentence. "British Empire, your eyes are dead," And the forest is dead, keening and sobbing into death; eyes dry, because tears are for Britannia's body pressed into the damp earth. He would not waste a drop on himself, because England has not paid his passage yet - he has no coins to smooth over his eyelids - nothing for Charon. France has paid, in occupation and half-there-grimaces. England has not. The dishonour twisted, and bubbled, mutated in his gut, until he wanted to vomit much more than he wanted to cry.

"You deserve to go to hell." America finished.

England knew it.

America, eyes almost obscured by the layer of cold glass, glasses, breathed out in a huff past his nose. It almost sounded like a sob. Pulled England into his arms, because they are brothers. Because he has the grace to allow history to coil and gather into thick bunches, forgotten, chopped forests behind them. Some soul to put behind dead, limp green eyes, and furious, confused blue ones. And America gazed down frankly at England, small, and curled up against his chest like a heartbeat; scrawny, slender, skinny, deer-delicate, resin-gold hair that is too greasy, a little musty, slaked with crisp dust, and rinsed, wrung out green eyes; a small, washed out, half-drowned wildcat and never once a lion. Not once.


	2. Triumvirate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus Material

England shook in America's arms, a single stifled movement; half wanting to run, half wanting to engulf himself into America's skin. Disappear. His breathing cut jaggedly out of line, and America's arms tightened, and America's breathing falling in love. Like military steps; one two, one two, in out, me and you.

"But this is hell."

Either one of them could have said it.

* * *

Albion's little arm almost snapped with pain, and the bowstring twanged loose, the entire bow being thrown right from his grip, and his voice a squealing note of anger, and a little pain. "I can't do it!" He protested, furious with himself.

Gently, Britannia tapped him on the head, Catha bringing back the bow in her oversized talons, and settled on Britannia's shoulder with a ruffle of sleek black wings. "Thank you Catha." Britannia took the bow and pressed it again into Albion's curled fingers. Albion stared up at her; eyes puddled leaves, spilt and framed with after-rain sunlight, curling pale blond hair.

"I can't do it." He repeated, and his face turned an unhappy, streaked red. Shame hot and coolings its claws on his cheeks.

"Yes you can," Britannia reassured.

"Why do I have to do this?" Albion whined. "I'm not hungry."

Delicate, like a doe picking her way through the undergrowth to nuzzle her fawn; press her muzzle into its dull spots; wide, beautiful eyes flared with pale eyelashes. That was how Britannia replied, pushing Albion into the curve of her leg, and fabric of her dress, curling him about her hip. He bunched his fists, bow clasped in one, and buried his face into her autumn warmth.

"You must know how to defend yourself."

"I'm no good at arrows."

"You must practice."

"I could just bite them." Albion nipped below Britannia's hip, teeth almost like a labour pain, and Britannia rubbed him at the base of the ears. If her child could purr, he would, instead he crooned and pressed closer.

"Those cannot keep you safe." Britannia intoned, admonishing Albion with her fingers laced hard in his hair. Albion twisted away, as slick and flexible as ever, eyes flickered like a sapling.

"You keep me safe." Albion muttered, stubborn and full of affection - trust - it made his face light up, and eyes shine with the day breaking through the leaves, blazing through them. "And you're forever."

"Try again." Britannia smiled, and Albion shifted away to cock the bow once more. The string snapped loose; the arrow surged forward. Missing the tree by miles, and hiding away in the dense woodland.


	3. Variations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The wildcats have taught England to battle as none can, to defend his island at any cost and the lions have taught England that he must pick his battles, he must find some peace. He must. Or it shall destroy him."

Rome speaks often of lions; the long tail, the ragged mane, the strong jaw, the paws that can soothe claws through gazelle. England was too young at the time to even ask what a gazelle was, certain it was something terrifying, unique, bold and glorious. Ever watchful of Rome's technique (armoured boxes, and stabs, jabs not strokes of blade) England duplicates the fighting stance, but his is coloured awkwardly with a feral grace. Rome pushes at England's arms, poking the limbs in here and there, pulling the spine straight here and there, pushing his head level because one day this little protegee will not fight people taller than him.

_(Eventually, England will laugh at that notion, because he grows up shorter than most of his enemies, and still juts his head slightly upwards when he fights. Exposing his arteries and veins because he must keep his eye on the opponent. Fearlessness in the single curve of a neck, and green eyes daring them to take advantage as he grips whatever weapon he clings to now.)_

Rome does not ask him where he learnt his technique, which is tailored to spring and bite and worry at a foe. Instead, Rome pushes little England towards the wall, and England punches it until his knuckles bleed. That night, Rome calls England an angel, though his wrecked fists are only full of angles, and the innate sense that he has completely betrayed his brother Scotland. The shame coils in his gut for centuries, and he finds the best way to deal with it, is to simply avoid it. Most nights, he can't even remember her face, but he does remember that he is not much of an angel - even with her magic pouring through his veins. She promised, green eyes and red curling hair, that she would teach him to defend himself, even when he didn't understand why. Claimed she'd be there forever.

_(He doesn't mention her by name; he's not sure he remembers. It would be worse to be wrong.)_

She was bound strongly to the corvines, especially the ravens, but also the crows, the magpies, the rooks and reaves. England remembers black feathers - inky like fingers - being twined through his hair. England, on the other hand, attracted the wildcats. They came from the North, and the East, and the everywhere, never more than one at a time, sometimes to leave a little mouse by his feet and sometimes just to curl against him as he slept like a breathing, gently fire.

_(Sometimes he eats the mice, because Rome might have; England is eager to impress.)_

It is they, with their nail-like claws, and deceptively small stature, arced ears that flick back, and twitching, tabby tails, that teach England how to fight. How to fight, he picks the wildcat up by the scruff, and calls it Lion, because surely this creature is glorious, unique and bold with limpet-like eyes. How to fight, and it feels like it's torn his skin right off. How to fight? Give no quarter. Seize and rip and burn and destroy as hard as you can. His stance is prepared to spring, merciless in approach, and full of jutting bones like a squirming feline, yet equipped with the same grace.

_(They say when a human child is confronted with danger, it turns instinctively for assistance, and when a puppy is confronted with danger, it automatically submits to the force, keening for mercy, but when a kitten is confronted with danger, it simply braces its tiny body for impact.)_

England braced himself as Rome gutted him with the butt of the spear, and his eyes water; you cannot rebel. England knows that he, with his tiny wildcat claws, and woad-dipped feral anger, had almost dragged Nero to his knees. Later, he crawls to sit at Boudicca's poisoned feet, and asks God to save, please save the Queen.

He's curled up there, like a tiny kitten, and Rome eventually touches him on the head, winning his trust back again. This, however, is not the first time England has crouched by a dead woman, struck by a sudden loss that he's not sure he can hold. Instead, England twisted, this time too weak not to force himself to cling to Rome. They croon at each other in Latin. And the wildcats slowly recede from the British Isles, retreating to isolated pockets. Rome calls England a little lion.

_(Years later, England tall, but never as tall as Rome would have hoped, but still an Empire as Rome hoped in drilled Latin and the criss-cross scar of roads, poisoned Queens, stands overlooking Africa. He has claimed a long stroke down Mother Africa's front, pulling her children into an untidy line. The grass is long, and England watches the black, almost brown eyes of the lion in front of him._

_It blinks slowly at him._

_Glorious, but that was a given. This lion has come to represent England. Yet, when he crouches defensively by the beast, his pose is all jutted clawing limbs, head jutted upwards, and he will find like a small creature. Deceptively weak creature. He will give no quarter, and in a sharp hiss and spit of words, sworn, expletive, England is not a tufted tail, but a tabby one. England is not curved ears, but arching, flattened pointed ones. England is not a tawny pelt, but coloured like loam and brindle and mud after rain. England is not a thick, defensive mane, but a ripple of puffed fur, just daring, daring anybody to take advantage of him._

_The lion blinks again, but perhaps it is not a real lion - not a human lion, but a nation lion - for it merely twitches its tail patiently and walks away from England._

_England is frozen, aware of the message. Aware, but wishing desperately he wasn't;_

_You must make peace with your battles.)_

Eventually, dragged to the floor by the war machine - twice through the ringer - and loathing, deep loathing from what he gave to Germany - his friends, his fellows, Europe, what France pays for in everything Germany hopes to do to him - and the scarring bombs that sink into him, like rain. For all of this, he is pulled to the floor, by the scruff of his dignity, and the wildcat is all but beaten out of him until he is crying shrilly from economic ruin, and deep rivets in his cities. The Empire is lost, and the influences of Rome are removed, painfully so, until he speaks only corrupted languages, and only builds square houses. The guilt in his gut bubbles and broths.

The lion, that he stood armed by, has taken over a single aspect of him; it has made him tired. He is too tired to clutch his Empire. Instead, he economically collapses against the little chick that defied him once and now peacefully holds him up and stays for once. England has no choice but to trust.

The wildcats have taught England to battle as none can, to defend his island at any cost - in beaches and fields and skies and ashen, burnt-out cities that smell of horror - and the lions have taught England that he must pick his battles, he must find some peace. He must. Or it shall destroy him.

The rain patters, meekly, weakly; England merely grips his umbrella tighter, and pulls his raincoat around him, hurrying to and fro amongst his work and his people.

More than a thousand years ago, two thousand years ago, too long ago, the rain patters just as meekly, just as weakly, steady and thrumming like a heartbeat, or the twist of emotion in England's gut. The little child shakes and shivers, and his forehead burns up, unsheltered from the rain, whimpering.

A single wildcat steps from the shadows of the trees, eyes a bulbous, luminescence, yellow and critical. Angular even. England is full of angles. The feline is full of angles. All fluidly, rain-licked together.

It steps, circling England as best it can, and purrs a warmth into England, and tells him to fight and live through another night, live to another day, and then fight on and on and on.

Nowadays, however, England lazily strokes his pet cat, socks left across the boiler pipes of his cloakroom, and a fresh cardigan nuzzling him in warmth. He sits and reflects on survival, peace, lions, wildcats, Empires, and screaming young children who would do anything to bite an Empire's heart out.

Quietly, he murmurs, that god, please, god save the Queen please. He's not been a Christian in years, really. The cat growls, friendly-like, a single purr knitted straight into England's bones, and England shuts his eyes, at peace, almost serene, angelic really, and strokes the soft fur rhythmically.

He is still a cat, left as a variation on a single fluid theme.

**Author's Note:**

> -Morrigan was a tri-identity celtic goddess, most popular in Ireland, but moving on, who was considered to be a Phantom Queen or High Queen, and was noted for being a victory goddess, as well as a mother goddess or ambiguous and capricious nature.
> 
> Her three parts were Nemain, Macha and Badb (Catha).
> 
> Nemain was a battle frenzy, wild and primal fighting and considered to be part of the mystical state of hacking enemies and forgetting your own injuries &c.
> 
> Macha was a victory goddess who consumed the heads of the fallen enemies, which in the celtic tradition was consuming the very essence of their being, or souls. Considered to be a crow.
> 
> Badb, or Badb Catha in her raven form, was a war goddess who owned the battlefield, in particular. Any battleground was called her land.
> 
> Morrigan, in this fiction, is an alias for Ancient Britannia, though Rome calls her Morgana Le Fay, a variant on Morgan Le Fay, a mythical figure from the Arthurian Legends, and powerful witch. There has been a suggestion of a link between the goddess Morrigan, and Morgana, but it is considered a very tenuous link at best.
> 
> -Alba is an ancient word for Scotland, and is Britannia's name for her son, though he would possibly have called himself Caledonia at some point as the Caledonians became the dominant gaelic tribe.
> 
> -Albion is an ancient word for England, and is naturally the name Britannia gives her younger son.
> 
> -Lake Distict is the land between Scotland and England and belongs to one or another in various bits, though those who don't live there couldn't tell you accurately who did own which bits or whatever. From what I gather - as a Kentish gal - it's probably Scottish.
> 
> -Wildcat; England as a country associates itself as a Lion, The Empire in particular depicted as one. Whilst Rome calls England a little lion, Britannia refers to him as a wildcat as lions are obviously not native to England, but wildcats are. Wildcats are also smaller than lions, of course. I'm of the opinion that wildcat is a far closer animal comparison to England than Lion anyways. A little vicious feline instead of a kingly one.
> 
> -Rome is a bit of a dick in this story, and I generally prefer to think of him as a gentler character, but as an Empire he can be very harsh, especially when he goes after what he wants. I tried to convey his gentler personality in the fact he's actually very careful of little children; this also ties into the fact Rome did a great deal for England as a country, or at least tried to - roads and all.
> 
> -Alba's fleeing ties into the fact Rome never conquered Scotland. Scotland is a tough place.
> 
> -Britannia's death here is different to a normal death in the fact that by taking Albion, Rome is essentially dividing her, and then squishing and altering her culture, or something. I'm not entirely sure how to differentiate the fact that this death is a permanent one, whereas usually a nation would recover. Just take my word for it, aaaa I fail.
> 
> -My headcanon follows that England giving the Empire up after WWII is a mixture of financial trouble, and political pressure, but mostly self-loathing. To avoid the war, England and France both signed a great deal of Europe over to Nazi Germany in an appeasement strategy that didn't work and was considered a dishonour - from all sides of the issue. Essentially he hates himself.
> 
> America's hatred here is less tied to politics and more tied to his personality; he's big on freedom. Additionally, the US was very supportive of helping chunks of Austro-Hungary become their own countries and England has undone a lot of this work by giving those countries to Germany, as gifts. It'd piss any hero off. I mostly wanted America to be angry at England to parallel against the Britannia-Albion/England relationship, given England raised America.
> 
> -The South of France sported a pro-nazi government, and when this goes through the hetalia mill it's kinda' amusing ;D France's southern regions, huh?
> 
> -Londinium was the Roman word for London.


End file.
